by Nancy Revell
Gloria looked at Dorothy and Angie and was glad to hear that both seemed to have their heads screwed on properly. She would hate to see them getting themselves into trouble.
‘God, I hope they don’t have women like her over in Gibraltar,’ Polly said suddenly. She had never thought that Tommy might have met someone else.
‘Don’t be daft!’ Gloria said. ‘That lad’s only got eyes for you. You’ve no worries about that.’
There was a general murmur of agreement.
‘Still no letter?’ Martha just came straight out and said what they’d all wanted to ask.
Polly shook her head.
‘I just keep telling myself no news is good news.’
‘I know I’m repeating myself,’ Gloria said, ‘but there’s loads of reasons you’ve not had a letter. Last year I didn’t hear from my boys for months – they’d sent me a letter but it’s never arrived to this day.’
‘Yes,’ Rosie chipped in, ‘and you don’t know if he’s been sent somewhere and he can’t write to you. A bit like Peter.’
‘Mrs Crawley, the woman who lives next door to Clements the photographers on our street,’ Polly said, her voice despondent, ‘she got a telegram the other day saying her Anthony had been declared “missing in action”.’
‘That doesn’t mean he’s dead,’ Martha said sternly.
‘Aye, the auld woman down our street, yer know the one who’s got the fruit and veg stall in Jacky Whites Market?’ Angie said.
They all nodded.
‘Well, she got a telegram a few weeks back saying her Harry her youngest’s a POW.’
Dorothy glared at Angie.
‘I think what Angie is trying to say, in a roundabout way, is that if Tommy’s a POW he won’t be able to write, but if that is the case, which I’m sure it isn’t, well, at least he’s still alive.’
The women fell silent as they realised their words of reassurance were becoming anything but. They all knew the war was not going well, that every day in the newspaper there were more names of those killed in action, and there was not one of them that didn’t know at least one person who had lost a loved one.
‘Have you heard or read anything of what’s happening over there?’ Rosie perked up. They were more than aware that Polly’s obsession with world maps, and just about everything to do with the war, was her way of coping with Tommy being away and doing such a dangerous job. Looking at Polly now, Rosie wondered which the greater torment was. Waiting for a letter, or knowing you weren’t going to get one?
‘I’ve not heard anything about Gibraltar,’ Polly said. ‘Everything I read seems to be about the war in the Pacific, about the Japanese taking over everywhere – the Philippines, Singapore … The Germans taking Malta and North Africa. None of it looks good. And that’s just what they’re telling us.’
Feeling an even heavier mood descend on her squad – and herself – Rosie stood up and brushed off the crumbs from her overalls.
‘Right, we’ve got twenty minutes left before we’re back at it, so I reckon we nip down and see Hannah.’
They all followed orders, screwed their cups back onto their flasks, stood up, and swung their bags and gas masks round their shoulders.
‘How’s Arthur managing? I’ve not seen a lot of him when I’ve been round yours lately,’ Gloria asked Polly as they made their way down the ladder one by one, their hobnailed boots clomping onto the steel decking as they jumped the last few rungs.
‘Worried sick,’ Polly said, tying up her long brown hair into her turban. ‘Not that he’d ever admit it. He’s been busy at the allotment with Albert. The pair of them are not just “Digging for Victory” for all they’re worth, but I think they’re also trying to produce enough fruit and veg to feed the five thousand.’
The women, who were all listening in to the conversation, chuckled.
‘And what about Bel?’ Martha’s voice was low and her tone tentative.
Polly let out a heavy sigh.
‘Oh, worse than ever. She’s not going to rest until she finds her da, that’s for sure. She’s actually been knocking on doors up near Backhouse Park – she’s convinced he was in service with her ma in one of the big houses there. She’s even roped Maisie into looking for him.’
‘I don’t understand why she needs to know?’ Martha said, puzzled.
‘Me neither, Martha,’ Polly said as they all trooped along the metal gangplank that led down to the main yard.
‘I don’t know who my real dad – or my real mam – is, but I’ve never wanted to find out who they are.’ As Martha spoke she was unaware of the slightly alarmed look Gloria gave Rosie.
‘So you are adopted?!’ Angie couldn’t contain herself. ‘Eee, me and Dor always wondered, didn’t we?’ She looked at Dorothy, who was looking unusually mortified.
Martha let out a loud guffaw.
‘Of course, I’m adopted, yer daftie! I would have thought it was really obvious?’
Angie didn’t know what to say so looked at Dorothy.
‘Well, you know, we didn’t like to ask you, Martha. These things are personal, aren’t they?’ She looked around at Polly, Rosie and Gloria for moral support. For once she got it as they all nodded back, agreeing that this was, indeed, a subject that many would probably not want to discuss. Especially walking across the middle of a shipyard.
‘So, you don’t know anything about your real parents?’ Dorothy asked, encouraged by Martha’s openness.
‘I call them my biological parents,’ Martha corrected. ‘But no, I don’t know anything about them. Nothing.’ This time Martha did catch the loaded look Rosie gave Gloria, and demanded: ‘Why the funny look?’
‘Oh, Rosie and I were just talking the other day about something similar, weren’t we, Rosie?’ Gloria looked at Rosie, who nodded back. ‘And we are of the opinion that some stones are best left unturned.’
‘Eee!’ Polly chirped up as they arrived at the drawing office. ‘My ma said exactly the same thing when Bel was going on about finding her da. She said, “Bel, you get to my age and learn that sometimes some things are best left well alone.”’
Chapter Thirty-Six
Glen Path, Sunderland
1914
As expected, Charles returned to the house the day before Good Friday. This time, though, there was less pomp and circumstance. The staff were all the same and still had the same pseudonyms that Henrietta had chosen for them before his last visit, so there was no need to go through the whole rigmarole again.
Velma had told Pearl at least half a dozen times that if she wasn’t needed upstairs, she was to come straight back down to the kitchen to help out. She had even told Pearl that if she managed to do so, she would make sure she kept some choice leftovers aside for her.
Pearl was chuffed. Since she had started work here she had tried all sorts of delicious foods, some of which she had never even heard of before. Velma had told her that she had hollow bones as it didn’t matter how much Pearl ate, she was still ‘as skinny as a rake’.
Each day Pearl would steadily work her way through the long list of tasks that had to be performed in her new, albeit temporary, job as chambermaid, starting with sweeping the halls at six thirty, then drawing baths, opening shutters, and airing beds after breakfast. Henrietta had her own maid, which meant Pearl really only had the master’s bedroom to tend to and the guest rooms on the odd nights they had people stay over.
Agatha had told Eddy, who had then told the rest of the staff, that Charles’s refusal to employ a valet was a sore point between the master and mistress and that they’d had an almighty argument about it on the first day of Charles’s return.
Pearl liked the fact she had been given a new maid’s outfit that consisted of a smart navy blue dress with white collar and cuffs, along with a starched white apron and cap. Henrietta had made a great show of giving it to her, telling her that it was her ‘afternoon livery’, but she could wear it all day, and she could keep it after she had finished her short sti
nt as a chambermaid as she might well be required to do more work upstairs in the future, since ‘maids these days seem to be fly-by-nights’ and it would be good to have a stand-in.
Pearl knew most girls would have loved to have been promoted to a position upstairs, even if it was just on an ad hoc basis, but she didn’t enjoy it anywhere near as much as downstairs with the cook, where the atmosphere was warm and there always seemed to be chatter and laughter, which had the bonus of stopping her from thinking too much about Maisie. Her baby girl still paid her frequent visits in her dreams at night, but it was now almost nine months since she had given birth and although she still carried the pain and heartache with her, she had started to accept that she really had not had a choice in giving up her daughter. She would never have been able to afford to feed her, never mind keep a roof over her head. And whenever she started thinking But what if …?, she forced herself to remember Evelina’s words: the couple would bring Maisie up properly, they were wealthy and respectable – working here and seeing how the other half lived had certainly made Pearl think about all the luxuries her daughter would have in life – and, most of all, they were coloured, which meant that Maisie would be accepted.
Generally, Pearl worked alone when she was upstairs. She made sure she did what she had to do well, but also as quickly as possible, adhering to Velma’s instructions to come back downstairs as soon as she was finished with her chores so that she could help in the kitchen. And, as promised, Velma always put some little treat aside for her.
During the first week of the Easter break, Pearl would occasionally bump into the master of the house while she was hurrying along the corridor or coming out of one of the bedrooms. He would never speak to her, or even acknowledge her, but Pearl could feel his eyes on her until she had disappeared from view. Once he came into his bedroom after returning early from a ride and found Pearl turning down the counterpane. She apologised and made to leave the room, but he’d told her to ‘Finish what you’re doing!’ His voice was deep and cold and Pearl had quickly fluffed up the pillows, closed the shutters, and made to leave. Again his eyes had followed her and he’d made no effort to move out of the doorway, forcing Pearl to squeeze past him. As she’d done so, she’d caught the sweet aroma of his aftershave, mixed with the distinctive smell of the stables. Coming out of the room, she’d been accosted by Agatha, who was hurrying along the corridor with a worried look on her face.
‘There you are!’ She seemed angry and Pearl wondered what she had done. ‘Get your skates on! There’s work to be done! Get downstairs and give the cook a hand. She’s run ragged down there!’ But when she arrived in the kitchen, having rushed down two flights of stairs, she’d found Velma humming away to herself, nonchalantly stirring a variety of pots she had on the hob of the Aga, looking as far from run ragged as could be.
During the second week the house seemed to be constantly busy with visitors, mainly sombre men dressed in smart, expensive suits who spent hours in Charles’s office, talking business and foreign affairs. Most evenings were taken up with dinner parties or having friends or work acquaintances around for drinks.
As the second week came to an end, Henrietta informed Agatha that Charles was due to leave on the Tuesday and she wanted to throw a farewell party for him on Monday. An air of relief seemed to emanate from the staff; a sense that the finishing post was in sight and they couldn’t wait to get there. Pearl was also glad her time as a chambermaid was nearing an end. She would never say so, but she found the work boring, and had also started to feel a little uncomfortable around the master. He would often appear unexpectedly, and had taken to returning from his rides or trips into town just in time to catch Pearl as she was carrying out her late-afternoon chores.
‘Just one last push!’ Agatha told them on Monday morning. ‘Mistress Henrietta has told me she wants to make the party this evening the best yet, so we’ve got our work cut out!’
All day the house was abuzz with people coming and going; crates of wine, port and Henrietta’s best ‘Russian water’ were brought in through the tradesmen’s entrance at the side of the house. The butcher boy arrived early, barely able to ride his bike it was so heavily laden with just about every type of meat imaginable. This was not to be a sit-down meal, but rather a constant drip feed of what Pearl had heard were called ‘canapés’ or ‘hors d’oeuvres’.
After doing her regular chores in the morning, Pearl was then tasked with cleaning and preparing the reception room where the party was to be held. Everyone was working themselves to the bone to make the evening as extravagant and as lavish as Henrietta’s tastes dictated.
When the first guests started to arrive, Pearl was given a quick brush-down and a new apron to cover her navy dress. For the next few hours Velma slaved over vol-au-vents stuffed with salmon, and what looked like miniature Scotch pancakes laden with duck pâté or dollops of cream cheese with carefully crafted strips of ham.
It was Pearl’s job to carry all these wonderful concoctions up to the party on a large silver tray. It didn’t take long before the tray was empty and she was returning to the kitchen, swapping it for another. Pearl was surprised to see the master of the house so jovial and animated. He was like a different person when he was in company and she wondered if perhaps they had all got him wrong and that he was just quiet when he was on his own.
By nine o’clock the party was in full swing. All the food had been consumed and Henrietta told Agatha that they would manage just fine for the rest of the evening.
Everyone made a beeline for the kitchen, where they slumped around the table, exhausted, but also content now their work was done; both the master and the mistress seemed happy with the fruits of their labour, and, moreover, Velma had kept aside enough leftovers to go around. There was also a bottle of brandy that hadn’t made it upstairs, as well as a big pot of tea in the middle of the table.
‘Well, pet,’ Velma said to Pearl, ‘it’ll be good to have you back where you belong – down here!’ She let out a hoot of laughter, suggesting she had been at the brandy already.
Pearl was glad too. As glad as she was tired. So tired, that after eating her fill of leftovers, and slurping down a cup of sugary tea, she slipped off to bed – the first to leave the merry little party in the kitchen.
Pearl practically crawled into her bed and immediately fell into a deep sleep. Images of her beautiful, dark-skinned baby seeped through from her subconscious and she saw Maisie crawling towards her, smiling and gurgling – her distinctive mop of curly brown hair dishevelled, as though she had just woken. She was reaching out with her two pudgy arms, her little hands clenching and unclenching as she tried to grasp her ma.
Pearl tried to reach out and pick her up, but for some reason she couldn’t, something was stopping her. Panicking she felt her arms being pulled backwards. With all her might she tried to free them. Pearl cried out, but no sound could be heard. Her neck was hurting. There was something around her neck, stopping her from moving, from shouting out, from breathing! Her panic intensified as she furiously gulped for air.
The vision of Maisie’s face desperately trying to get to her started receding into the darkness. Pearl caught one last look at Maisie’s confused little face as her light hazel eyes frantically searched for her.
Only then did Pearl wake up, expecting to be free from what had fast been turning into a nightmare.
Only then did she realise that the night terror she was experiencing was real.
There was no Maisie, but she was suffocating. And her hands were behind her back – held there by someone who was gripping both of her wrists so tightly she thought her bones would break. A hand was around her neck and was squeezing it with increasing pressure.
Her face was being squashed into the pillow. She was choking. Pearl managed to lift her head a fraction and gasp for air, her eyes straining to see who was behind her. And that was when she caught sight of a strand of blond hair – and then the flash of a man’s profile.
It was the
master.
He was pressing his whole weight on top of her. He was stronger, much stronger than she would have imagined a man of his stature could be. He was strangling her and then releasing his grip, allowing her a few precious seconds to suck in air.
And then she felt an awful pain – the searing violation of her person.
She screamed but her desperate pleas for help were silenced as he pushed her head down into the pillow to muffle her cries.
Pearl was trying desperately to thrash her body around with every ounce of energy she had. Her arms flailed as she tried to grab and scratch. Anything to get free.
She knew it was hopeless, but she kept on and on, until the hand around her neck squeezed her more tightly. Until her vision clouded over and darkness prevailed.
Only then did the pain stop.
When Pearl woke she had no idea what time it was, only that it was still dark outside. Her mouth was so dry she could hardly swallow and every part of her body felt sore and bruised. She slowly rolled herself on to her back. She was still wearing her cream cotton nightie, and her bedclothes looked ruffled, but no more than normal.
For a second Pearl thought that she had simply woken from some horrendous nightmare, and that was all it was. Her little bedroom looked the same as it always did. Her nightie was covering her modesty. Her bedclothes were even pulled right up to her shoulders.
So why did her body feel like it had been pummelled, pushed and pulled out of shape?
Pearl sat up, but as soon as she moved, her head started to bang as though an invisible fist was punching it over and over again. She reached for the glass of water she always kept on the bedside table. It was still there. She picked it up and took a large glug. It relieved the dryness but it still hurt when she swallowed.
Grappling around for the matches, she found them on the floor by the side of the bed. She reached down and picked them up. For some obscure reason, Henrietta’s voice calling her ‘the little match girl’ came into her head. It seemed to take all of her energy to simply strike the match and light the candle.
